


Roxanne in Night Vale

by ElectricalSun (orphan_account)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/F, Humor, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-05 06:53:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 12,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1809319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ElectricalSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>**Female, 25,deserted in Night Vale**</p><p>  <i>"I crumple the pink Pink Floyd teeshirt and throw it to the desert and the rattlesnakes and the mystery men of our little universe.  I once again laugh, this time wickedly.  The radio plays nothing but static."</i></p><p>The adventures of the young scientist, Roxanne, her maybe-girlfriend, the neighbor's kid who never quite makes it back home, and some of Night Vale's most notorious citizens. A masters in biotechnology doesn't do you much good out here, eh? But that's what the panic room is for.</p><p>Follow Roxanne as she rages against the Glow Cloud, sciences along side our town's most beloved (and beautiful) scientist, denies all interest in progressive rock, fails at home security, stands her ground against the infamous Wheat and Wheat By-Products and much more!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Entry One

**Author's Note:**

> Begins circa episode 7. Please visit my profile for the link to the Tumblr (roxanneinnightvale) which provides frequent updates.
> 
> "Aaah, but when is *insert event / person here* going to show up in the story?"  
> Well...  
> Cecil Palmer, first appearance: Entry Two, part three  
> Carlos the scientist, first appearance, Entry Three, part one  
> Glow Cloud, first appearance (TBA)

I occasionally find myself composing this inner monologue in a half-baked and utterly sadistic attempt to retain my mental sanity.  My past is rather irrelevant at this point in time, given that the things I have learned on the outside haven’t proven to be very useful, here in Night Vale.  

And yet here I sit in the middle of the bathroom of my two-bedroom apartment, along with the neighbor’s kid who always seems to be sticking her freckled little nose into my business.  Both of us are slathered in low-SPF sunblock.  It makes walking about the room without sliding a bit of a tricky task.

“I’m hungry,” Aurora suddenly wines, lying on her back and waving her arms half-heartedly in the air.

I’m busy tuning the portable radio I keep in my apartment.  “You heard what Cecil said,” I reply.  “If it’s outside of the bathroom, I’d rather not chance it right now.”

“Since when do you listen to Cecil?” she nearly sneers.

I have, in my mere two months of living in this southwestern town, learned many things, including controlling the overwhelming urge to slap this particular child.  “Yeah, I’ve been a little more cautious since I nearly snapped my neck falling over a dead reindeer last week.”

Aurora continues the waving motion with her arms, still fixated on the ceiling.  “Ooooooh, glow cloud.”

I sigh.  “Glow cloud and now winged dinosaurs of some sort?”  I lean against the wall, content with the strength of the night’s broadcast.   “Man, I just wanted to board a normal plane to Halifax but somehow ended up here and even though it’s been two months everyone is still trying to convince me there has never been an airport in Night Vale...”  I briefly tune into the broadcast again.  “Pah, Tyranador Attack Gate, just what we needed this week.”

Aurora makes an effort to sit up and perhaps be a little less annoying.  “How did the town meeting go today?”

“We’re apparently removing the lead door from Radon Canyon.  Needless to say, Carlos isn’t very happy.”

“He’s your boss, isn’t he?”  she asks, innocent and oddly fixated on the subject.

“He sure is.  I’m glad I can put some of my lab skills to use way out here in the sticks.”

She giggles.  “Cecil likes him.”

I couldn’t help but smirk and turn my head to the radio.  “He sure does.”  I nod my chin at the dials.

“Isn’t lead dangerous?”  she asks, still innocent and full of curiosity.

I shake my head.  “Not unless you plan on eating the door or maybe licking it every day for a few years.  It’s important in holding back radiation.  You know, from the plutonium that it’s been apparently containing.”

She stares with wide eyes, overwhelmed.

It’s a night made for sighing, I figure.  “No, the lead is very helpful in the door.”

I can hear sudden banging my own front door, which presumably does not contain heavy metals of any dubious sort.  I pause, weighing the risks and benefits of remaining safe in the bathroom, but presumably being quite rude to my potential guest versus acting like what would typically be considered a rational human and take the minimal risk of death-by-flying-dinosaur-attack.

I decide I should take the opportunity to remain a normal human being, while I still can.  

Aurora has some objections.  “You’re not going out there, are you?”

I reach for the doorknob before me as I speak, “I’ve already been forced to store all of my books under tarps on the balcony because of the PSA stating they are unfit for human living quarters.  I love those books and my right to have them in my own home has been stripped of me.  I’ll be damned if some backwater council members are going to tell me I can’t answer my own door.”

I brace myself as I enter the living room.

 

 


	2. Entry One, part two

I have recently had the decades-old shag carpeting removed from the main living area and attached corridor, but installation of the new hardwood floors isn’t going to happen until at least Wednesday, according to the asthmatic flooring salesperson I spoke to on the phone.  I heard him take at least three puffs on an inhaler during the duration of our call.  I hope he’s still alive.  People tend to come face to face with their mortality from far stranger things around here.

My landlord doesn’t seem to mind the renovations.  In fact, I haven’t seen the hooded man since the day I moved in.  When I called about a leaky sink during my first week of residence, his answering machine picked up with a recording of what seemed to be heavy, agitated breathing followed by the click of the receiver.  I was too distressed to bother leaving a message.  Nonetheless a plumber came by the following day.

The raw plywood flooring irritates my feet as I round the corner of the hallway… slowly… slowly.  I hear the soft thud of the door shutting.  The source of the knocking is in my apartment.  

I pause, my heartbeat pounding softly in my ears.  I shimmy to the broom closet and retrieve a wooden training sword, a momento from a childhood spent training in various forms of martial arts.  Everyone knows soccer is for squares.

Jumping behind the couch in the living room I make my demand.  “Who’s there!?” I shout, swinging the sword in front of me.

I suddenly realize my lapse in judgment, noticing that I am absolutely dripping with sunblock of the slow SPF variety.  The sword slides from my hands, hurtling itself across the room and half heartedly impaling itself into the wall opposite me with a CRACK.

The woman, as the person turned out to be, turns towards me, not seeming to notice my breathtaking failure at home security.  

“Roxanne, I think you need to get some sleep… but take a shower, first”.

It’s Adrienne Klein, the friendly, unfazable photographer from The Night Vale Daily Journal who just so happens to live in the apartment directly above mine.  She’s leaning on my bookcase, her thick, midnight blue hair pulled into a sloppy braid down her back.  She swears that it’s her natural color.  I’ve never seen her roots.

“Sorry I let myself in.  I thought you might still be in your bathroom.  My contact in city council says they’re lifting the Pterodactyl Warning soon.  I know how you’re not from around here and tend to get worked up about these things so…”  she gets a bit flustered and breaks eye contact, “Just wanted to ease your mind, I guess.  Or whatever.  You know what I mean.”

I flop into the overstuffed chair I had purchased from the local consignment shop and call out to the hall, “Aurora, safe to come out!”  I turn my attention back to my guest.  “Uh, thanks for the warning, I guess.”

Adrienne blushes and nods.  “Also, if you’re not busy tomorrow,”  she adds, “I was wondering if you would maybe like to go get lunch together?  I figure it might be nice to get out and enjoy the unseasonably cool weather, you know?”  The last bit sort of rushes out of her mouth.

I cut her off before she can become too embarrassed.  “Of course I will!  I have my day off, anyways.  As long as the glow cloud stays on the other side of town, that is.”

She smiles, relieved.  “Yeah, I’m really not a huge fan of it, myself.  I see your wound from when you tripped over that moose or whatever is mostly healed up, now.”

I feel for the raw pink splotch on the back of my neck, barely visible beneath my shoulder length mass of dark curls.  I hope she doesn’t notice that my chronic sunburn has worsened since she witnessed the injury first hand.  She had then documented the incident to include in an article pertaining to the sudden appearance of the glow cloud.  That had been the first time Adrienne and I had really spoken.

“Just keep that moist.  And I’ll see you tomorrow,”   says with a smile as she works her way towards the doorway.  

“Wait,” I stop her, standing.  I see her eyes rush up to meet mine, her typically unfailable confidence seeping back into her.  

“It was a reindeer,”  I add.

“Goodnight, Roxanne,”  she laughs, her dark hair blending into the night.

Aurora makes her way past me, heading in the direction of the kitchen.  

“Miss Klein doesn’t seem like usual self when she’s around you, Roxy,” she says, as though an afterthought on her quest to retrieve off-brand grape soda from the refrigerator.

“Say what you want, Rora, but that woman is the kind of friend you want to keep.  Speaking of our neighbors, we have to share the panic room with the second and third floors if anything worse than prehistoric creatures crashing the PTA meeting happens, so make sure you don’t stick too much inessential stuff down there when we’re stocking, okay?”  I sort of bang the heel of my foot against the unfinished floors to prevent jinxing myself.

Aurora the All Knowing (as I sometimes call her) replies, “You changed the subject” before disappearing to devour far more sugar than a decent guardian would allow.  But she’s not my kid, though it’s usually kind of hard to tell.  “I get first shower,” she adds, as though asserting some sort of prize for her supposed victory in not violating the rules of basic conversation.

I sigh once again, removing the wooden sword from the plaster of the wall.  Though I would really love to meet friends for lunch, I know better than to make definite plans.  Night Vale always has something unexpected up its clouded sleeves ready to trip up an overly-educated outsider at a moment’s notice.


	3. Entry Two

I awake around two o’clock in the morning, incapable of grasping sleep.  For once it isn’t for fear of the second coming of those ghastly dreams with which many of the citizens of Night Vale are plagued.  Those dreams that break your sleep with a cold sweat and a mind forgetful of their contents.

My bedroom window glows with the lights from Radon Canyon, just outside of the town’s limits.  In my honest opinion, it appears to be some sort of laser show.  The beams fly high into the sky and then fall to the ground in a rhythmic pattern. I have never been to the canyon before.  My lungs wouldn’t be up for the challenge.  

Tonight I think about what I’m going to order at lunch tomorrow with Adrienne.  I think about Adrienne, the person, as well.

 

Morning comes.

“Take me bowling!  It’s going to be super hot today!  I even heard from Jenny at school that it’s half price now that Mr. Williams found a secret underground city beneath the town center.”  Aurora states at breakfast with every ounce of her seven years of maturity.  Her feet dangle from the high barstool at the kitchen counter.

I pour her  a bowl of frosted mini wheats, the strawberry kind.  “How do you know it’s going to be hot today?  I haven’t heard a real forecast since moving here.  And Mr. Williams has a couple of screws loose, in my opinion, but I never said that.”

“It’s going to be hoooot, Roxy!”  she declares, skirting around my question and shoving a spoon full of fiber-rich cereal into her little mouth.

I lean on the counter, buttering a crusty roll.  “Tell you what,” I finally say, “If you go and visit Miss Josie for the day and help her around the house, I’ll take you bowling after I get back from lunch.”

Aurora makes a sour face.  “But those Angels that follow her around scare me.  Besides, they help her with chores so she doesn’t really need me.”

“Even little old ladies who live near the car lot need actual human interaction, Rora.  Think about how happy you will make her.”

She chugs half a glass of orange juice.  I don’t correct her. She may even need fruit juice chugging skills to save her life some day.  Who knows?  This is Night Vale, after all.

“Fiiiiiiine,”  she finally replies,  “But I want honey wings when we go!  They’re free with the bowling, anyways...”

I wave my hand dismissively.  “Yeah, sure.  I don’t really eat them anyways.”

Aurora smiles, a thin line of milk trailing from the corner of her mouth.  She wipes it with her sleeve.  “What are you going to wear on your date?”

I hand her a napkin.  “It’s not a date, Rora.  It’s just lunch with a fr--”

“It is so a date,”  she replies, finding some sort of insatiable need to correct me.  “I think you should wear that Loyd teeshirt!  It’s pretty.”

I pause from chewing to think about which shirt this may be.  

“You don’t mean the Pink Floyd teeshirt, do you?”

She drops her spoon into her bowl of milk with a clang. “Yah!  The pink shirt!”

“The fact the shirt is pink is either coincidental or meant to be ironic... well, not ironic, I guess the opposite of that.  The word ‘Pink’ is in the name of the band; it was very hard to find one of their shirts in that color.”

Aurora nods.  I doubt she understands.  “Okay, wear the pink Pink Loyd shirt.”

“Floyd.  Repeat after me.  Floyd.”

“Ffffffloyd.” Some particles of food fly from her mouth.  Being a child, she is unbothered by this.

I gesture for her to put the bowl in the sink.  “Go get yourself ready.  I’ll drop you off at Josie’s house along the way.”

 

After leaving Aurora at Night Vale’s resident Angel headquarters, I take the opportunity to drive into downtown before noon and go shopping at some of the comparatively “normal” stores.  I decide to first stop into the Old Navy outlet, its only flaw being the poltergeist that occasionally haunts changing room six.

The air conditioning is a welcome relief to the late morning heat.  I nod politely to the clerk behind the counter at the front of the store.  She seems to do a double take as I pass by, but does not return the gesture.

A small child and his mother pass by as I work my way among the racks.  I smile and wave down at the little boy.  He gapes at me, seeming to glimpse into my soul as his mouth opens in what appears to be silent terror.  His mother urges him to follow her.  No one says a word.

I make my way to the shelf full of half-price denim in a secluded portion at the back of the large shop, considering what cut of jean would look best on me.  I’m fairly tall, I figure, so there’s a lot I could pull off...

Aaaand that’s not a size ten.

That’s not denim.

So what am I holding in my hands?

I look up.  It’s a cloak.  A cloak most definitely not made of denim.  The hooded figure points to me as I am hypnotized by the glow beneath his cowl.

I’m pretty sure that’s not my landlord.

 

 


	4. Entry Two, part two

I do what any sane, ordinary human would: run like hell.

I book it through the store, crashing into racks of discounted teeshirts from last season.  I push my way past a disgustingly cute couple and nearly leap over the same child who had been so revolted by my presence before.

“Hey! No running in the store!” shouts the clerk as I dash past the checkout area.  

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!” I nearly scream, rushing at the doors.  

These doors happen to be of the electrical sliding variety.  I slam into them at full speed, unable to stop my momentum.  As I tumble backwards onto the ground they open unceremoniously.  Mockingly.  I look to them in disdain.  They are unfazed.

The clerk approaches me, arms folded beneath her name tag.  I grip my head between my hands, feeling the pounding of my skull.

“Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

I’m lying on the floor, gasping for air.  “But... the.... hooded figure!”  I point in the direction from which I had come charging.  There is no hooded figure.

“Ma’am, this is a Old Navy outlet.  Does it look like a dog park to you?”

I wince.  “Uh, no.  There are no dogs.”

“There are no dogs allowed here.  Well, there are no dogs allowed in the dog park, either, but that’s beside the point.  Please escort yourself out, completely through the doors, this time.”

I comply, just recovering from the pulsing sensation that seems to have spread throughout my entire body.  I trudge to my Rallye Red Honda Civic on the far end of the parking lot and plop myself into the driver’s seat, turning the key to accessory, and turning on the air conditioning at full blast.

I reach for a tissue in my pocket and rub my hand against something stiff.  Something made of paper.

I pull out the piece of plain stationery.  In blood red pen (as a life scientist, I can tell it is not real blood) is written in cursive characters:

“Maybe you know.  Maybe you don’t.  But maybe you should stop wearing that shirt.  Maybe you should stop being a Pink Floyd fan, altogether.”

I shake my head.  I smirk.  I bow my neck backwards and laugh to the desert heat.

I rip off my shirt and toss it into the passenger seat.  I start my engine and tear out of the parking lot, turning my car in the direction of route 800, my head pressed back firmly against the headrest.  I take a few deep breaths as I find my heartrate finally lowering.

Fifty, sixty, seventy miles per hour in the direction of Desert Bluffs.  I open my windows and allows the hot autumn wind to fill the space around me.  I am bathed in light from the sunroof.  I crumple the pink Pink Floyd teeshirt and throw it to the desert and the rattlesnakes and the mystery men of our little universe.  I once again laugh, this time wickedly.  The radio plays nothing but static.

I see the sign.  “Welcome to Desert Bluffs” it reads.  I pull off the road in the shadow of the plaque of metal, still within Night Vale... but just barely.  I can feel the unease sweeping in the breeze that passes between the towns.  My newly adopted residence may be making me mad, but I am not foolish enough to leave my vehicle.

I retrieve my cellphone from my canvas bag and dial Adrienne’s number.  As it rings, I look to the digital clock on my radio.  Eleven-thirty in the morning.

“Roxanne?”  A voice finally phases over the phone.  I grip it tightly.

“Hey, Adrienne.  It’s me.  Some things came up and I think I’m going to have to take a rain check on lunch.”

There is a brief pause and I can hear the sounds of shuffling in the background, then a sigh of relief.  “Oh, thats fine.  I just realized I’ve gotten very caught up in work. anyways.  Turns out I have twice as many photographs to edit before monday’s edition than originally planned.”

I smile.  “Alright.  Does next week work for you?”

“It should, and trust me I will have my work load under strict management by then.  But you know, Roxanne...”

“What?”  I ask inquisitively.

“We never do get much rain out here.”

This time the pause is mutual.  I can almost hear her grin over the wireless connection.

“Goodbye, Adrienne.”

“Goodbye, Roxanne.”

I end the call and look into the cityscape of Desert Bluffs, wondering if the same crazy things happen in their little corner of paradise.  I allow myself another good fit of laughter in the light and dust of the late morning.


	5. Entry Two, part three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cecil is finally introduced into the story!

I’m halfway through a cigarette when Aurora walks onto the balcony through the kitchen door.  I sit on a pile of hardcover biographies, my torso curled over my knees.  I try to blow a ring of smoke into the air.  I fail.

“You don’t smoke?” Aurora says, more as a question than as a statement of fact.

I shake my head and put my head between my legs.  “First one in three years.”

“Okay.... can you please put on a shirt before we go bowling?  I’m pretty sure we can’t go do that if you’re in a bra.”

I stand up to stub out the cigarette on the railing, still unfinished.  “I wasn’t going to pick you up for another hour.  How did you get home, anyways?”

I don’t get a reply until we’re back inside of the apartment.  Aurora sighs and throws herself on the couch, reaching for her Nintendo DS on the coffee table.  

“Erika dropped me off.”  I can hear the sound of Pokemon Soulsilver booting.

I go to the refrigerator for a bottle of water.  “And who is Erika?”

“One of Miss Josie’s angels.”

“Ah, so there are angels named Erika.”  I walk down the corridor to my room.

Auroras voice carries down the hall.  “They’re all named Erika!  Roxy, you’re so smart; how come you don’t know that?”

“Do I look like an angel-ologist to you?!”  I shout from my closet.

She pauses as she makes a couple of selections in her game.  “You can’t fool me, Roxy.  That’s not a real thing.”

I reenter the main living area wearing a striped tanktop.  “You saw right through me.  Okay, go ahead and save.  We’re leaving now.”

 

Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex is rather busy this afternoon.  Almost all of the lanes are occupied, with the exception of seven, which has a habit of breaking down, and five, which is said to have an ancient civilization living within its depths.  I laugh internally.  I’ve seen much stranger things.  I am a scientist, after all.

Aurora is trying on alley shoes when I spot a familiar figure a few feet from where I stand, down the counter.  It’s not his looks that I recognize, but his voice as he softly reads the specials on the board to himself.  He isn’t quite how I pictured him to be.  He has mystical tattoos the color of the purple void that covers Night Vale and very fair hair.  For some reason I had always pictured a brunette.

“Cecil?”  I barely say over the sound of Aurora attempting to stomp her foot into one of the rental shoes.

He turns to me from the board of bowling rates.  “Hey, you’re one of Carlos’ scientists.”

I nod and reach out my hand.  “I’m Roxanne Kolev and this is--”

Aurora sits in a temper on the floor, utterly frustrated.  

I finish my sentence.  “This is Aurora.”  I blink at her and allow my hand to drop.  “How about another size?”

She shifts reluctantly to the man behind the counter as he warily hands her the next size.

“Your daughter?”  Cecil asks, not prying too much.  “What do you think of the Glow Cloud joining the school board?”

I shake my head.  “She’s not mine.  I just look after her a lot these days.  And I understand the cloud wanting to raise its children in a neighborhood with a decent school district, but don’t you think demanding every citizen’s worship is a bit excessive?”

“I’m not certain if I’m in a position to make an editorial on the issue right now,”  he replies, frowning as Aurora jumps up and down in the now-fitting shoes.

“You did recite a mantra in its honor that one time on air wh-- Aurora, sit still for just a moment!”  I beg.  She frowns, as well.  She frowns at me and then frowns at Cecil, who is, in turn, is still frowning at her.  Even the third eye imprinted on his forehead seems to disapprove.

“You’re Cecil Palmer?”  she asks.

He seems to enjoy his celebrity and reflexively smiles.  “That’s me.”

“You’re even weirder than I thought,”  she nonchalantly replies.

He seems a bit taken back by this.  “Well, you seem to be a strange little girl, yourself.”  

This shuts her up.  Aurora stares at the man for a moment before she huffs over to a bench a few feet away mumbling “I’m not a little girl.”

“I think you insulted her,”  I laugh.  “But anyways, we should get to our lane.  She’s been begging me all day to take her and I already made her spend half a day with the angels at Old Woman Josie’s.”

“So Aurora’s seen the angels as well...”  Cecil muses.  “That’s interesting.”

“Please don’t put her in your radio show.”

He waves his hand in the air.  “No, no.  Besides, Josie calls in enough about the angels as it is.  We don’t need one little girl’s testimony.”

I hear Aurora once again whine “I’m not a little girl.”.

“Okay, well, I will see you around, perhaps,”  I say as the radio host shakes my hand.  I turn to leave but he doesn’t let go quite yet.

“Say... could you give Carlos my cell number, by chance?”  he asks.  His eyes almost seem to plead to my own from behind his glasses.

“I’m pretty sure he already has it,”  I say, somewhat confused, “He has it just in case he needs to call in about some emergency situation people need to know about and he can’t reach you at the station.”

Cecil releases my hand and subtly rubs his own together in a mildly nervous manner.  “Well, yeah... but he hasn’t called and I just wanted to make sure and...”

I interrupt him.  “Okay.  How about this.  Next time I call in to the show either you or the person in the control booth needs to take my call before that damn hillbilly Larry Leroy.  I would like the citizens of Night Vale to hear an educated opinion now and again.  I haven’t even gotten though once.  Do this and I’ll make double sure Carlos has your number in his personal contact list.”

His face brightens at this.  “I think we have a deal!”

We shake hands again.

Aurora shouts, “Okay!  Can we go bowling now.  I’m going to kick your butt this time, Roxy, I mean it!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey, I'm not always great with writing canon characters in character, so if I need to fix a couple of things just comment and let me know!**


	6. Entry Three

Aurora did, in fact, kick my butt at bowling.  I have never been very coordinated, anyways.  It’s kind of sad I don’t even have to throw a somewhat-athletic competition to a seven year old.

 

A series of nights follow, all of which are peppered with the lights from Radon Canyon.  For some inexplicable reason they now send shivers down my spine.  I usually sleep facing away from my window.  

On one particularly sleepless night, I hear my cellphone ringing in the other room.  I ignore it, rolling back into my comforter and curling my body against the wall.  

The cellphone rings again, a sort of pulsing chant this time.  It sometimes plays my normal ringtone, an electronic song my friend from back East always played and has since been frequently stuck in my head, and sometimes it’s this cryptic chanting.  There’s always some kind of cryptic chanting happening somewhere in Night Vale.

I drag myself from the comfort of my mattress and rush past the guest room where Aurora has taken up nearly permanent residence.  No one has seen either of her parents in over five weeks.  And no one seems overly concerned, least of all Aurora.

I grab the phone from the faux marble of the kitchen counter and walk through the sliding glass door, onto the balcony overlooking the sudden slope behind the complex.  Checking the caller ID, I realize that Carlos is the one frantically trying to reach me.  I answer.

“Hello?”  I whisper.

There was low rumbling in the background.  “Roxanne, Roxanne are you there?”

“Well, I am the owner of this phone,”  I reply, sitting on top of the pile of books.  “What’s wrong?”  I’m tired and Carlos is always frantic about science, I figure.  I just really want to make a cup of tea about now.

He’s ranting at this point.  “I need you and the rest of the staff down at Beatrix Loman Memorial Meditation Zone right now... the machines ...” the call fades in and out “... pyramid... communication!”

“I don’t think you’re talking about the right desert, Carlos.  You’re also not coming through very clearly on this end.”

“No!  The pyramid... I need you here!”

I nod, even though there is no one to see me.  “I’ll get myself together and pick some stuff up at the lab.  Give me forty-five minutes.”  There’s the sudden, loud shouting of several individuals in the call on Carlos’ line.  “Uh, make that thirty.”

I hang up the phone and rush back into the apartment.  I can hear Aurora snoring softly in the other room.  I open the freezer and take out a package of waffles for her to defrost at a more appropriate hour of the morning.

After wishing my face, slathering on some high-SPF foundation and makeup and grabbing my field pack, I pass into the early hours of the morning, careful to lock the door behind me.

 

The trip to the lab is rather short and I grab a set of equipment used in documenting incidents such as... well, whatever this is.  Cameras, tablets, audio recorders, the like.  However, it’s a lengthy drive to the Meditation Zone, as those seeking inner peace tend to enjoy their solitude.  

By the time I arrive at the site the sun has risen and quickly begins to scorch the earth.  Sure enough, there is a giant pyramid right in the middle of the Meditation Zone, crushing the majority of the infrastructure.  It’s unusually bright in the morning light, almost as though it has been varnished after being built.  But, as every scientist knows, it’s impossible to build a pyramid overnight.  Like many things in Night Vale, it just appeared.  And I have a feeling that it will sooner or later disappear, as well.

I look for Carlos and find him beneath a rather abruptly erected canopy covering a variety of instruments brought from the lab earlier this morning.

He doesn’t seem to have time to talk.  He frantically points to an overly-complicated looking radio and declares, “Here, stay here.  Please analyze the frequencies while I take care of other business.”  He turns to leave.

I reach out my arm to stop him.  “Carlos, hang on a sec.”  But he’s gone.   He has a tendency to rush off like that.  I still have Cecil’s number on a crumpled piece of notebook paper in my wallet.  I just never get to stop and chat with my boss these days.

I ignore the issue in the meantime and focus on the work in front of me.  There are already some notes haphazardly scrawled into the blank first pages of some pulp novel.  The book has been left open on a folding table that is supporting several machines.  I remind myself to burn the book at the end of the day since the writing is highly illegal.  Writing utensils have been outlawed in Night Vale, after all.

The first, and most complete of the scrawlings, reads as follows:

**“"I WILL PLACE WITHIN SOME OF YOU QUESTIONS. WITHIN OTHERS, I WILL PLACE ANSWERS. THESE QUESTIONS AND THESE ANSWERS WILL NOT ALWAYS ALIGN. THE QUESTIONS I PROVIDE MAY HAVE NO ANSWERS, AND THE ANSWERS I PROVIDE MAY HAVE NO QUESTIONS. I WILL STUDY THE EFFECTS OF THESE QUESTIONS AND THESE ANSWERS. SOME OF YOU WILL HURT OTHERS. AND OTHERS WILL HEAL. GROW MY SEEDS INSIDE YOU, AND LET THEM FLOWER.”**

 

Well, that’s cryptic.  Where did this...

One of the machines, a low-frequency radio of sorts, makes a sudden squeak.  Through a layer of static I hear:

 

**"EVERYTHING YOU DO MATTERS EXCEPT YOUR LIFE. DEATH WILL BE THE LAST ACTION YOU'LL UNDERTAKE. I DO NOT LIVE, BUT I EXIST. WHAT IS MY PURPOSE? I WILL NOT TELL YOU. ONE DAY YOU WILL DISCOVER YOUR PURPOSE, AND THEN YOU WILL TELL NO ONE. AND THEN, YOU WILL DIE."**

 

I copy this, as well as the previous note, into one of the tablets I brought with me.  The machines are then silent.

So the pyramid really can communicate.  I shudder slightly at what it had said about these questions and answers.  Knowledge can be very dangerous in the hands of those willing to abuse its power.  There are far too many people like that in Night Vale.  There’s nothing to do but wait and see what happens.

The sun is oppressive, even at this time of year, but I am shielded from its wrath by the canopy.  With nothing to do at present (with the exception of babysitting some radios and monitors) I gaze into the horizon, finally having an opportunity to think.

I admit, at this point I am very tired, having gotten virtually no sleep over the course of the night.  I lean back in my folding chair and pull my sunhat slightly lower over my eyes.  A very light breeze ruffles my hair and cools my skin.

Suddenly, as though stricken by a bolt of lightening, a single word enters my psyche.

“Potatoes,” it says.

Waking from half sleep, I snap to full attention and check the machinery.  Nothing has changed.  But I can’t quite shake the creeping feeling I’m getting, and it all has to do with the word “potatoes”.

Being a good scientist, I record the word “potatoes” beneath the philosophy of the pyramid.  I make a point of not sleeping on site anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Blah, pyramid text in bold is canon to WTNV and does not belong to me, but rather to the folks at Commonplace Books.


	7. Entry Three, part two

I laugh like an idiot.  Watching the Sheriff's Secret Police attempt to take a pyramid of overwhelming proportions into custody is certainly the highlight of my week.  I lift the tablet on which I was taking notes and snap a picture as one particular officer pathetically throws his taser gun at the pyramid’s shiny surface in frustration.  It bounces off and tases another officer in the leg.

“Oh my God, Carlos.  Why is the government here so incompetent?  I mean, look at them.”  I lean back in the folding chair and email the picture to Adrienne.  She’ll get a kick out of it.  Hell, she can use it in the journal, for all I care.

“It’s Night Vale, after all.  Uh, so about these notes...”  Carlos sits besides me in his own folding chair beneath the canopy, eyes scanning the records on his laptop.  “... what does ‘potatoes’ mean?”

I feel a cold chill come over me.  “Uh, nothing, I guess,”  I somewhat lie.  “Just sort of came to me, you can delete it.”

My boss shifts closer to me, hand reaching out.  “Are you feeling normally?  Your eyes are awfully dilated for this much sun.”  I lean just out of reach.  I’m not in the mood for having my eyelids prodded.

“It’s fine.  It’s fine.  I don’t think it’s anything particularly dangerous.  I mean, the pyramid said ‘some of you will hurt others’ but I doubt anyone’s going to stab me over starchy vegetables.  And...”  I grin, turning to get a good view of Carlos’ face.  “Speaking of things we don’t like to talk about, why did Cecil want me to give you his number again?”  He had, in fact, already had Cecil’s number in his contact list of his cellphone.  I smile and nod as Carlos struggles to reopen his laptop, just noticeably flustered.

“Nothing.  It’s a strictly professional relationship.  I am a--”

“Scientist.”  I cut him off.  “Me too.  I know the feeling.  But still, I try to take time to include others in my life, you know?”

He goes silent.  The tased officer is now capable of standing and proceeds to tackle his fellow idiot who was responsible for his injury.

“How’s Aurora?”  Carlos finally asks, changing the subject.

I take another picture of the remaining secret police who are now attempting to issue a new warrant to the pyramid in an effort to arrest.  Needless to say, it is to no avail.  Carlos takes a bite of his sandwich.

I flip through the image library as I reply.  “She’s okay.  Not visibly upset.  She likes waffles a little too much, though.”

“She doesn’t have to be your responsibility.”

I shake my head.  “And what else would I do?  Give her up to the government of of a city in charge of these fools?”  I gesture to the scene before us.

“But--”

I hold up the picture of the man writhing in pain as his is attacked by a flying taser gun.

“Okay.”

I look past the pyramid and to the horizon.  “You know, it’s kind of funny.  As scientists we are full of questions, forever displeased with the answers we find or, in the best of cases, uncovering new questions as previous ones are answered.  For once I have a definite answer and I am not as satisfied as I think I should be.”

Carlos nods understandingly, but his eyes are once again buried in his notes.  “This time you need to find the question.  You should be excited.”

“But do I really need to?  I mean, what rests upon this?  Upon fucking ‘potatoes’, for the love of...”

“Simple,”  Carlos immediately replies.  “Science.”

As I think about this, a soft beep comes from my email.  I pause before open it, finding that Adrienne has replied to my photograph with:

“Ahaha! I submitted it to NVCR to see what they have to say about it.  By the way, Cecil replied wondering if you did ‘the favor involving this town’s most beloved scientist’ yet.  I have no idea what that means, just passing on some presumably business related info from my professional network to my favorite neighbor.”

“Drat.  Well, even if I didn’t win the award for ‘most beloved scientist’ I retain my ‘favorite neighbor status’.”  I smile, turning the tablet to Carlos so he can have a better look in between bites of mid afternoon lunch.

He blushes faintly, likely over what Cecil had supposedly said, then turning to somewhat avert his eyes.

“You two are adorable.”  I say.

“I am a scientist!”  he objects.

“You are a human, Carlos.”


	8. Bonus Content 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be posting some of my writing from the Welcome to Night Vale July Challenge! These are mainly out of context drabbles that are canon to the fanfic, but aren't mentioned in the linear story line.
> 
> July 2: Any Headcanon.  
> ~~~  
> July 3: Favorite proverb.

I’m drinking tea from a mug on the balcony, leaning over the railing and daydreaming.  It’s a Wednesday afternoon and Aurora should be home from school very soon.  

She does come home and, instead of crashing on the couch to play here Nintendo DS, she strolls to the doorframe leading onto the balcony, leaving her Hello Kitty backpack in the kitchen for me to move out of the way about five times over the course of the evening.

“Hey, Roxy, have you ever heard of the multiverse theory?”

I furrow my eyebrows and turn around to look at her.  “Yeah, it’s not my field of study, though.  Where did you hear about it?”

“School,” she flatly replies, failing to elaborate in order to fully answer my question.  “But what if... Roxy, what if the theory is correct and there are infinite universes for infinite possibilities of reality?  And what if Night Vale doesn’t exist in any single of of these universes?  What if this town is where all of these universes converge, that’s why everything keeps shifting and changing?  Maybe that’s how the waterfront and airport disappeared!  They’re stuck over in some other alternate universe! And perhaps only people who weren’t born into this ever shifting void of a town like you are Carlos are the only ones who really notice it...”  her voice sort of fades to an awkward silence.

I’m still leaning on the railing of the balcony, mug in hand, only now my mouth has dropped open.  “Uh, Aurora, I’m glad you’ve gotten that off your chest, but what the hell are they feeding you at that school?  Still, I feel like you’ve just broken the fourth wall, yourself.  You were born here.”

She just smirks.  “I’m going to go toast some waffles from the freezer!”

“No! You’re not touching the toaster oven after what happened last time.  Wait, I’ll make them for you.”  I say, following her back into the coolness of the apartment.

Kids.

 

~~~

 

“If I said you had a beautiful body, would it even matter because we are so insignificant in this vast incomprehensible universe?” I say, reading my fortune cookie.

Adrienne looks at me from across the half-empty cartons of take-out Chinese.  ”Not my type of pickup line.  A touch too cryptic.”

But I like it.  A little existentialism never hurt anyone.  Nobody important, anyways.


	9. Bonus Content 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be updating the actual story today or tomorrow~!
> 
> But for now please enjoy some more of the Welcome to Night Vale July Challenge
> 
> July 5: My "How I got into Night Vale" story. (in character, of course)

[In a not too distant past…]

I hate assembling furniture.  I hate the sun.  I hate the sand that keeps coming through my windows.  I hate not having a job.

I’m lying on the floor of the bedroom in my new apartment.  I have just given up my latest attempt at assembling a dresser I had purchased at the formerly-nearby Ikea the day before.  

The Ikea has since vanished and the cashier at the minimart down the street claims there has never been an Ikea in Night Vale.  He also tells me there had never been an airport in Night Vale.  Then tell me how I ended up here from all the way in New England, Mr. Cashier-Man!  I sure didn’t drive.  I had to buy a used Honda Civic my first day here.

It’s fine, who needs a couch, anyways?

I sort of loll around on the floor, sweat pouring from my forehead in the evening heat.  I turn towards the soon-to-be-postered wall and notice an unopened bag of supplies I had purchased in conjunction with groceries as soon as I moved into the apartment.

I crawl over to it and look at its contents.  A package of batteries.  A box of tea.  A first aid kit…. and a radio.

I recall what the salesperson had told me.  “You don’t have a radio!?  Well, of course you need a radio!  It’s going to save your life some day.”

I shake my head.  Deserted in a strange town with no friends and no family. Your only hope is the cheapest radio from the electronics store.  Way to go, Roxanne.  Just your luck.

I take out my phone and flip through some photos of my friends from back home.  One of my friends was going to move in with me as soon as she saved up the money to get out of the country.  Guess that’s not going to happen now.  And I would never insist on her moving to a place where Ikeas and airports suddenly disappear.

My eyes wander back to the radio, still in its box.  I take out my pocket knife (from my pocket, of course) and break the seals.  I plug it into the wall and place it on the floor besides me.  

I browse the channels.  Static.  Staic.  An odd pulsing.  Static.  Cultish chanting.  And then…

“Next we have Cecil Palmer with the evening news bulletin.”  There’s a pause.

A speaker, who I assume is Cecil Palmer, then breaks the brief silence:

 

“A friendly desert community where the sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome to Night Vale.”

 

“Well, Cecil,”  I say to the open spaces about me, “Looks like it’s just you and me right now.”


	10. Entry Four

Life is boring over the next few weeks.  Dare I say it is even... normal?  No, that would certainly be taking it too far.  Life is just boring, plain and simple.

 

The bland timespan can be summarized briefly as follows:

Needless to say, the Museum of Forbidden Technologies was a disappointment, even on free admission day.  Being that all things within the museum are forbidden, there is nothing to see besides tarps and duct tape.  Understandably, there was a lot of wining and grumbling from children and adults alike.  I had to buy Aurora ice cream to make up for my failure as a guardian.

There also was the slight incident involving the roving pack of wild, Libertarian dogs.  I kept Aurora home from school for a few days.  I don’t let her carry firearms like her classmates.  Only pepperspray, and she is mature enough to know only to use it in a Night Vale-eque emergency.  She asked me why I dislike dogs so much.  My explanation as to why Libertarians cannot be trusted went over her head.  She said not to worry.  She likes cats better, herself.

 

But today is the start of a new day!  I can feel it in the air.  Great things are about to happen!

I hum as I prepare breakfast for Aurora and myself as a thin breeze washing into the kitchen.  As my omelette cooks on the rangetop, I pour her a bowl of frosted mini wheats and almond milk.

“Ek, why can’t I have real milk?”  she grimaces, still donning her Power Puff Girl pajamas.

I turn on the radio I had brought with me into the kitchen this morning.  Cecil’s show will be on very shortly.

I reply to Aurora’s complaint as I flip the omelette and make my way to the refrigerator for orange juice.  “You’re too old for all of that fat in whole milk.  And you can get your calcium this way.  Make sure you take your vitamins, too.”

She crunches on the Flintstone vitamins in between mouthfuls of cereal.

“Why don’t you take vitamins?”  she inquires.

“I do.  I just take them at night.”

The show begins with a notice about changes in medical insurance coverage.  Fortunately government cullings by disease are not a norm.  Plenty of residents die from Night Vale related accidents and keep the powers that be satisfied.  I just hope I don’t develop cancer or whatnot through an outside source and have to fully foot the hospital bills.

I sit besides Aurora at the counter to eat my own meal.  

Cecil nearly shouts a PSA over the air:

“In other health news, the Night Vale council for commerce reminds you to regularly consume wheat and wheat by-products! By doing so, you are directly supporting the local Night Vale farmer... as well as the Night Vale commodities conglomerates! Looking for a snack? Try wheat, or a wheat by-product! Dinner? Wheat and/or its by-product! Trying to patch a leaky roof? We have just the thing for you, and we also have its by-products! Wheat and wheat by-products: by Americans, for Americans, in Americans, watching Americans.”

I lean over to look at the newspaper as I stuff more egg into my mouth.

“Rora, stop shaking the box of cereal; it’s making it hard to hear the radio.”  I push my glasses further up my nose.  I’ll put in my contacts after showering.

“I’m not shaking the box of cereal.”

“Than who is?”  I say, flipping to the politics section.  Fewer censor bars than usual today.

I hear her put her glass of orange juice back onto the table after taking a sip.  “The Faceless Old Woman who lives in all of our homes?”

“What would she want with your cereal?”  I turn to the box as it makes a slight hissing noise.  “Old women don’t hiss, Rora.  And don’t touch that.”

Cecil’s voice suddenly jumps in pitch, catching my full attention:

“I apologize, listeners! We at Night Vale Community Radio are experiencing... the... following... technical problems!!  THE NEED FOR AIR... EYE MOVEMENT... and... gooey... stuff inside!  Please!  Stand... by... ugh...”

There are some dial tone noises.

“Thank you. These problems have been corrected.

An update on our previous message about wheat and wheat by-products: ‘You should not eat wheat or wheat by-products!’, say several frantic scientists, waving clipboards in our studio. As it turns out, all wheat and wheat by-products, for unknown reasons, have turned into venomous snakes, which are crawling all over our small city, causing even more chaos than is normal!”

“Panic room,”  I say.

“But Roxy...”

“Panic room! NOW!”  I push her towards the living room and place the toaster on top of the box of cereal.  My cabinets had come with locks.  I now see how this could be useful, as opposed to an unusual inconvenience.  I flip the latches, grab the radio, and follow Aurora to the cellar.

It’s cool and musty.  The electric light from the ceiling reveals a row of cots and boxes of food storage.  I grab a light blanket and throw it on Aurora, who happened to have her Nintendo DS in her hands, as usual.  I could hear the cows in Harvest Moon mooing loudly.  She doesn’t appear too perturbed by the idea of venomous snakes in our apartment.

I call Adrienne, but she’s already on her way to the cellar.  She had been listening to the broadcast, as well.  Fortunately she is sensitive to gluten and therefore does not have much wheat in her own kitchen.

Today is going to bring great things.  Great and terrible things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Cecil Palmer quotes come from the original broadcast and were not created by me.


	11. Bonus Content 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More July Challenge!
> 
> July 6: A headcanon about Old Woman Josie

“Hey, Miss Josie,” I say, approaching her porch in the twilight.  “I see you finally replaced that lightbulb.”  I gesture to the outside light that seems to have ceased its insesent flickering since the last time I came by to pick up Aurora.

“Roxanne!”  she exclaims delightedly.  “Yes, Erika did it this morning.  It’s the second time we had to change it in the last month!”

I nod.  Of course it was Erika.  Neither Old Woman Josie nor Aurora are tall enough to reach the light bulb.  It must have been one of the angels, for all angels are named Erika.

Suddenly, as though sensing my thoughts, and in a burst of blue light, the very same light bulb makes an undignified POP and explodes into a rain of fine glass amidst a long, piercing shriek.  I involuntarily clench my body as I instinctively take a step back, nearly pressing against the frame of my car.  I feel a thin line of blood trickle from my cheek.  I touch it, but there are no serious gashes.

“Are you okay!?”  I shout over the dying shriek of the volatile glass bulb, but Old Woman Josie appears to be gone.

“Miss Josie!?  Josie!  Where are you?”  Damn.

I hear the crunching of broken glass beneath my feet as I open the living room door.  It smells like mothballs, as do the homes of many old persons.  

But in this otherwise normal living room stand figures of immense proportions, heads scraping against abnormally high ceilings, limbs shimmering and shifting, nearly thrashing, in near unison.  They are bathed in faint white light and, in the middle of the group, stands a single being, a single angel, who is distinctive from the rest.

He is black.  But that is not why he stands out.  That would be racist.  The only reason I mention this is because Old Woman Josie had once mentioned (on Cecil’s radio show, no less) that this particular Erika is the one who changes her porch light.  (On a side note, there is a pretty good chance that Old Woman Josie may, in fact, be a tad racist).

Actually, I’m not entirely certain if the beings cloaked in shifting beams of light even have genders, let alone races.  This is all a bit much for me to comprehend.  I set my mind on finding Aurora and getting the hell out of this crazy place.

But the angel who stands out from the crowd is unique for a reason.  He shimmers not in white, but in blue.  The blue of the broken light bulb and rain of glass.  The blue of the piercing shriek that seems to have stricken fear into the hearts of his comrades.  A fear I, myself, seem to have forsaken after the initial shock of the explosion.  The figures about him / her/ the ethereal being glow more sinisterly.  It is impossible to describe in any other way.  

“Roxy!”  Aurora shouts, running, nearly tripping, down the stairs that bypass the heavenly figures.  “Roxy!  The angels are not happy.”

Old Woman Josie trails behind the little girl.  When she reaches us she begins babbling “They’re so mad.  Oh Roxanne, what am I going to do?  You must leave at once!  Go on, go, go.  I’ll have this all straightened out by next weekend, I promise you!”  She nearly pushes us into the darkening evening and slams the door.  

Her voice still pours from the other side of the door, this time not directed at myself.  “WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?  No, no, this will not do!  This isn’t right!  Blue light.  Blue.  No.  Never.”  It thins to a near whimper.

Then there is only silence.

Aurora and I look at one another, both refusing to spoil the stillness of the moment.  The moonlight now marks where we are to make our exit, the red doors of the used Honda.

As we face our seemingly endless journey to the vehicle, heads down and hands in pockets, only five words are spoken.  They are my own.

“Look out for the glass.”


	12. Entry Four, part two

“Look, Adrienne, I have six cows now!”  Aurora proudly declares as Adrienne leans over to see the screen.  More mooing comes from the speakers.  They sit side by side on a cot in the far corner of the cellar, a blanket spread across both of their shoulders.

There are now a total of four of us in the panic room.  This includes me, Aurora, Adrienne, and a middle aged guy named Jerry who lives on the third floor.  I don’t ask about the location of his wife.  I don’t think I want to know.  I don’t think he wants to know.  He seems to be in denial, silently chewing on the end of a toothpick as he watches me tune the radio.

I finally get a signal and Cecil’s voice breaks through:

“I like to butter up a piece of bread and then rub the imaginary corn along it, and then sprinkle it with a little bit of salt and cayenne!”

“Can we get some imaginary corn tomorrow, Roxy?”  Aurora asks, peeking out from over her video game.  “I’m tired of eating that squash in the fridge.”

“I’m pretty sure imaginary corn isn’t very nutritious, Aurora, seeing as it’s imaginary.”  I sit on  the cot across from her, trying to smooth my persistent bedhead with my hands.  The curls rebel into a bed of frizz.  I reluctantly give up.

“I can assure you that the crop of imaginary corn has been very, very nice this season, Roxanne,”  Adrienne pipes in.  She seems completely sincere.  I seriously don’t know what happens to Night Vale citizens at a young age to make them like this.  

“I’ll have you two over for dinner sometime soon,”  she adds.  She is sitting cross-legged in flannel Betty Boop pajamas that match the blue of her hair.

“Yay, imaginary corn!” Aurora declares.

Jerry continues to chew on his toothpick as we sit in silence for several minutes later.

“It’s a shame everything is made from wheat and corn,”  he finally says,  “There are other starches out there, you know li--”

A loud, repetitive crash comes from upstairs, like the sound of smashing plates, cutting off Jerry mid sentence.  Something large and blunt is striking the heavy metal of the basement door, making a dull thumping sound.  It reminds me of knocking.  

We all slowly turn our heads to the sounds, unsure what to do, but all knowing that the best course of actions would be to do nothing at all.  To let things pass.

Cecil is just about wrapping up his rant about imaginary corn and switches gears to the previous segment:

“...Further updates on wheat and wheat by-products. The good news is that they are no longer poisonous serpents!”

We all breathe a sigh of relief.  I look from Adrienne, long limbs wrapped beneath the blanket, to Arora who seems to be growing bored with her game, to Jerry who is... wait, where’s Jerry?

“Jerry?... Jerry?!”  I say, then shout.

“The bad news is that they have transformed into a particularly evil and destructive form of spirit. Please, be aware that wheat and wheat by-products are now malevolent and violent supernatural forces, capable of physically moving objects of up to 200 pounds, and entering human souls of up to soul strength four.”

“Goddamnit, Jerry!”  I shout, rushing to the storage area.  “Adrienne, stay here with Rora,”  I say over my shoulder, breathing frantically.

“Roxanne, what is your soul strength?!”  Ardienne shouts from the cot as I search for the missing tenant.

“I have no idea, Adrienne,”  I reply, looking for anything I can use to defend myself against apparitions.  Damnit, fresh out of proton packs.  This, of course, is a joke.  I do not allow firearms of any sort into my household.

“You were never tested as a kid?  Mine’s at six, which I’ve been told is well above average.”

Aurora has finally put down the DS.  “Mine’s an eight, Roxy!  But I’d think yours is pretty high, too.”

“Wow, that is really high...” Adrienne says to Aurora.  “You’re lucky.”

“This is all well and good but I have absolutely no context for this right now!”  Finally!  I have found something of use.  It is.... a tennis racket?

“Stay. Here.”  I say, heading for the basement door.  

My phone rings in the pocket of my pajamas.  It’s the electronic song I intentionally set.  “Oh what now?”  I say out loud.

It’s Rachelle on the other end of the line, one of the other scientists who work under Carlos.  Her voice is stricken with panic and she is breathing quite heavily into the receiver.

“Do not... apparitions... possession... Roxanne!”

“Rachelle?”  I reply, wishing for her to clarify.

She audibly swallows and her voice regains some composure.  “I need you to construct a simple lean-to and--”

“I do not have time for this Rachelle!  I am fairy certain one of the other tenants is upstairs right now, potentially getting his butt kicked by these spirit-wheat-things.”

“Wait, what’s your soul strength?”  she asks.

“I don’t know!  Here, I’m giving the phone to Adrienne.”

I walk back to the cot and hand it to my friend whose hair Aurora has now fashioned into a french braid.  It’s quite impressive, actually.

Adrienne nods as Rachelle begins to speak to her and I start off, once again, on my mission to find Jerry.  I hear “No, no, she was never tested,” spoken from behind me as I part from the others.  The crashing upstairs has yet to cease.

I creep up the stairs and place a single hand upon the doorknob.  It is metallic.  It is warm.  Far too warm for November.

I press the side of my face against it, trying to listen to any sounds from the living area.  All I can make out is the persistent crashing and a new sound... the sound of a dark wind rushing through the streets.  Only for some reason it’s rushing through my apartment.

I turn the doorknob.  Slowly.  Slowly.  The door is thrown open by the sound, which, my guess having been correct, was an abnormally strong rush of wind.

Bits of plates and sand rush around in the wind, scratching the walls, putting small tears into the furniture, and putting abrasions into my own face.  I squint into the strange darkness that has formed to find that none other than Jerry is standing at the very center of the mess.

I hold my tennis racket defensively before me.  “Jerry... uh, Jerry?”

He turns to me, eyes bleach white, clothing ragged.  He floats a few inches above the floor.  “...”

“What’s your soul strength?”

The crashing of breakable objects and rushing of wind continues as he replies.  

“Three.”


	13. Entry Four, part three

“Okay, um, hang onto that thought,”  I close step back into the cellar and close the door to the demonic whirlwind, which has begun blinking in shades of red and purple.  No, not purple.  Violet.

“I may not have thought this through,” I say to Adrienne as a I pass the cot which she and Aurora have moved to the side to make room for some kind of project.  It’s kind of blocking a clear walkway, so I prop it against the wall.

“Roxanne, can you hand me some more of that plywood?  We don’t have any animal bones so we will have to make do,”  Adrienne passively says as I observe the structure that is being constructed in the middle of the concrete floor.

I hand her a sheet of wood I had long before stored behind the food shelving.  “I hope particleboard will do.  What are you building, anyways?”

“A lean-to, as Rachelle instructed.”

I press my lips into a straight line.  At least they aren’t panicking.  That’s the last thing we need right now.  “Whatever makes you feel better.”

The volume on the radio had been turned down by one of the inhabitants of the shelter, so I take it upon myself to return it to an audible level.

“It is my sad duty now to announce that the City Council is officially putting Night Vale under an emergency state, due to the ongoing wheat and wheat by-product situation. The Council states that anyone who has come into contact with wheat and wheat by-products, and has by some happy miracle survived, should consider themselves infected and proceed to the usual quarantine area, just behind the playground in Mission Grove Park, there to spend the rest of their days in quiet contemplation and weaving. Everyone else should head immediately to the wheat and wheat by-products shelter that has been sitting unused for decades under the public library. When asked why a wheat and wheat by-products shelter already existed, the City Council answered, simply, ‘PROPHECY.’”

I look to Adrienne and Aurora to see if they had heard the announcement, but they seem to be caught up in their project.  

I feel completely lost.  The lean-to looks sturdy enough, but I couldn’t figure out any scientific explanation as to how it was supposed to protect us from a poltergeist.  It’s composed to particleboard and Gorilla Glue, now being covered with a large tarp, forming a tent-like structure.  Both Adrienne and Aurora crawl inside of its folds.

I sigh and follow their lead, leaving the tennis racket behind.  We sit cross-legged in the darkness, Aurora climbing onto my lap.  The heat from our collective breath grows warmer around us.  The sound of respiration is faint, yet almost smothering.  We wait.

A song comes on the radio, one I have heard before.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,”  I mutter.

Adrienne quickly retorts, “There is a child in the room!”

“This song is so...” I trail off. I just hate it.  There is something I despise about the carefree apathy of this song.

“Cigarette burns forever

The message is spliced together

Now I would never let her

But where did people go to get her?”

The door of the basement flies open.  I can hear it shatter into a pile of splinters on a wall opposite ours.  The whirlwind rushes about us, flashes of light barely visible from beneath the tarp.  Its edges lift, kicking basement dust around us.  I cover Aurora’s ears with my hands.  She keeps her eyes wide open.

“You took me to the private party

And swore that they would not cart me

Drive careful less they hear you

When all the time they learnt to fear you.”

In this moment I realize what I despise most about living in Night Vale.  I cannot stand the absolute helplessness this town makes me feel, the inability to predict what is to happen or to know just how to save myself and those I care from its wrath.  I was a fool to think I could destroy a demonic poltergeist with a tennis racket.  Though, to be honest, I never really believed that (I am, like my colleagues, a scientist, after all).  But you see, I just had to do something.  

“The sidewinder drinks and gambles

The gold digger strikes his damsels

But when I lost the magic sandals

I said some things I could not handle”

And here it is again, this sinking feeling.  Guilt over something I have absolutely no control.  I cannot help but blame myself for not being better prepared.  And I hate myself for feeling this irrationality.

Adrienne loops her arm through my own.  “Oh god we should have gone to the shelter!”

“We had no exit, Adrienne,”  I remind her.  No, I can’t let her blame herself, but I can’t provide the same comfort to my own conscious.

“Going ninety off my star

So is flashing by as the flame retards

Don't you wanna be some other?

And all the people have to drug each other”

It finally happens.  The tarp lifts and we all stare, in unison, into milky, hollow eyes of a man who once been a rather pleasant neighbor.  The shrieking sound like metal fills the air, followed by a bright flash.  I clasp Aurora close to me, Adrienne still holding my arm.

I wake moments later.

He is gone.

“I fell into a life of leisure

I saw to a path of pleasure

Don't it make it that much better

To find a cigarette that burns forever.”

The song finishes as I stare at the ceiling.  Cecil’s voice breaks through the air.  Old woman Josie is having issues with the Angels again.  They warn of the bowling alley.  My back hurts.

“And finally, some good news. All wheat and wheat by-products have mysteriously vanished from Night Vale, and the City Council promises that they will be gone forever. This scourge, this siege upon us, this salvo of food-based warfare is finally over. Nevermore will be we threatened in our homes by this enemy or its by-products.”

“Oh thank god.  Are you okay, Roxanne?”  Adrienne asks, carrying Aurora over towards me.  She places the seemingly shocked child on a cot besides me and then assist me to a sitting position.  

I allow my eyes to finish adjusting to the light before replying, “I’m fine.”  The shelter we had built had been tossed across the room, now split in two.  But we had made it.  We survived.

We walk into the street and turn towards downtown, groups of dazed citizens stumbling into the light as though beckoned by an unrelenting force.  There is a distant hum.  There are many dead snakes littering the sidewalks.  Besides the dead animals (to which our town had become accustomed since the arrival of the Glow Cloud) the carnage is fairly limited.

I don’t know where Jerry went, and I still don’t know what happened to his wife.  I’m fine with remaining ignorant on both accounts.  There will be no more Jerry and there will be no more wheat.  There will be no more wheat by-products.  No more bread.  How disappointing.... unless...

“What’s wrong, Roxy?”  Aurora asks, gripping a fold in my pajama pants.

I had stopped, now staring into vacant space.  Adrienne stops photographing the aftermath of the incident gives me an inquisitive look, as well.

I take out my cellphone and hit the third speed dial.

“Hello?”  the voice on the other side asks.

“Potatoes, Carlos.”  I then whisper, “Fucking potatoes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The pyramid predicted this.  Now I need to go buy some damn potato bread.”


	14. Entry Five

            It’s been a late night for science.  It’s two in the morning but I’m sipping coffee along with Rachelle and Dave.  We’ve just come back from some long, drawn-out experiments in the Scrublands that just don’t seem to be going anywhere.  The only place open at this hour is the Moonlight All-Nite Diner.

            I have ordered eggs, but they have yet to appear at the table.  Rachelle is absentmindedly scrolling through her phone and Dave appears to be ready to pass out into his own mug of steaming-hot liquid.  I passively stare off into the interior of the diner.

            It’s fine.  Nothing fancy, but it’s pleasant enough to attract the company of locals.  There’s an awful lot of mint, though.  It’s a little tacky.  The booth that sticks to my legs is the surprisingly warm, despite it being a rather chilly desert night.  It’s cracked in odd places.

            “I bet Aurora’s been throwing a fit over the mall Santa fiasco, huh?”  Rachelle, says, forcing conversation despite her tired demeanor.

            “No, actually.  I don’t think she believes in a human Santa.  She says she thinks that Santa is an animatronic creation of a vague yet menacing government agency that dictates the execution of our holidays, as well as our hopes and dreams.”  I sigh.  “I sometimes wish she would be a bit more like a normal kid.”  I allow my eyes to wander as Rachelle returns to her phone.

            A couple of individuals sit in the booth across the tiled floor from our own.  One is the once distinctively Slavic-looking man wearing a Native American headdress.  In the recent weeks he has become, in fact, Native American.  This man, the Apache Tracker, is still wearing that headdress, even at the table. It’s almost as tacky as the mint detailing of the diner.

            The other is an individual I have never seen before.  I cannot get a good look at them.  Are they a man or… some sort of other being?  A waitress, who seems to glow faintly in the fluorescent lighting of the diner, places a slice of pie before them.  She sparkles faintly as she traipses her way back to the kitchen.  I notice that the pie she has placed is not invisible pie.  The pie is strawberry.  The individual seems to be the sort who enjoys strawberry pie.

            The pie eater looks nervous.  Too nervous.

            The pie eater makes me nervous, as well.

            “Hey, listen, Cecil’s on.  I wonder if he’s said anything about the boss yet,” Dave snickers, finally alert.

            The NVCR broadcast plays through the cheap speakers in the foam tiled ceiling.  They have a tendency to flicker on and off, but it seems the sound finally decided to work properly for the first time this evening.

            It’s ominous.  Cecil seems to be dictating every action of the person I have been watching, as well as his companion, who I learn is the very same Apache Tracker against whom Cecil has a personal vendetta.  In fact, it seems Cecil is dictating every _feeling_ that passes through the ambiguous individual’s mind, as well.

            “’I think my pie is here now,’ you say unnecessarily, as the pie is quite visibly placed in front of you. You did not order invisible pie. You  _hate_  invisible pie,” Cecil says.

            The individual, _You_ , moves their mouth, presumably forming the same words, at the exact same moment. 

            I shudder.

            “I… I need…”  I stammer.  Rachelle glances as me and my eyes move to the window to the right of our booth.  I touch my face.  I am still there, but for a moment…

            “What a weird program tonight,” Dave notes, visibly disappointed he will not have material with which to embarrass Carlos the following work day.  “Who is this person anyways? _You._ That’s not a proper name!”

            I think that is a strange thing for Dave to worry about when underhanded things are taking place.  Underhanded.  Strange.  Wonderful.  And I need to know the answers.  I am a scientist, after all.

            I hand Rachelle a five dollar bill as I lift myself from the table, intent on following the ambiguous person who had just slipped past the diner doors and into the transient night.

            “Not feeling well, Roxanne?” she asks.

            “No,” I reply, eyes glued on the ending phase of light outside of the diner before everything visual become black as ink.  “Things are not well, at all.”

            I slip my coat across my shoulders and curtsy to the waitress who nods her head to the music in her mind, now polishing the counter, as is socially acceptable in such situations.  When in Rome do as the omniscient beings who run the city council demand is to be done.

            As I pass through the door I hear Cecil muse “as you start the car, the man on the radio says something about the weather” followed by music that fades as the door closes and I am left alone in the frozen parking lot, watching the headlights of a car pull into the road.

            “Hey!”  I shout, waving my hand in the darkness.  They do not stop.  My heart pounds.

            I get into my own car.  The music continues to play.  I try to follow the car and the man whose actions are dictated by Cecil’s words but he seems to fade fast into the blackness of the poorly lit road.

            I pull to the side of the road and rest my head against the top of the steering wheel, breathing heavily, my windows still partially fogged from the cold.  Collecting myself, I pull down the visor from the ceiling and stare into the mirror.  My eyes flash green for a moment.  I’m transfixed.  It is as though I am staring at a different person.

            I break eye contact with myself when there is a knock on the driver’s side window, just to my left.  My hand moves before my mind has time to panic, lowering the glass.  There are two men.  It is the one who is not tall who has knocked.  He is also the one who beckons me to leave my vehicle.

            I comply.

            I _foolishly_ comply and take a step.

            I stand in the cool desert air, a light breeze rubbing itself against my ankles.  The man who knocked (and who is also not very tall) grabs my elbow.  The trance is broken.  I pull my arm away, but, twisting, accidentally throw myself to the ground.  I reach to my car, but I am out of reach.  I do not cry out.

            I do not cry out when they grab me, each man locked on an arm.  I am limp and resigned as they throw me into the back of the black car with tinted windows.  I sit behind the driver’s seat.  I am stiff.  I do not say a word.

            We circle through the town of Night Vale, though it seems chaos is once again taking its grip.  It is not that unusual.  The NVCR broadcast once against hums with Cecil’s voice, describing the passage of the man I had abandoned.  Leaving home, Cecil describes, _you_ drives a route differing from that my captors now take me.

            I stop listening and gaze from the window.  The small fires, the large fires, the burst fire hydrants now of limited use in putting out the previously mentioned fires.  They do not faze me.  I do not ask why.  But I am a scientist… right?

            We pass by the dog park and the city hall, finally the car lot where Old Woman Josie and the Angels reside.  There is a heavenly glow over their house. We press on.

            We have gone in a circle, seemingly buying time, now returning to where we had left my car and passing, continue into the desert wasteland. 

            Out of the town, we slow out pace until we reach another car pulled to the side of the road.  The man who is driving cuts the engine.  My window is slightly cracked and I can hear the gunfire and shouting now overtaking the town behind us.  I can hear the radio broadcast faintly from the other car as animals dash in and out of the beams of its headlights.

            There is talking.  I do not care to listen.  Like the waitress there is music only I can hear.

            Or is it static?

            Cecil interrupts.

            “There is an unexpected click.  One of the rear doors of the black car has opened, and your fiancée has stepped out. Her eyes are wet, like it was the night you left.”

            Cecil’s words tonight are law.  My door has opened and I stood automatically, now facing the individual I had seen in the diner.  The person I had pursued in my car.  The person I… The person…

            “She does not appear to have aged, but then, you can’t actually remember how long it has been.  Could it have been last week?  Or was it ten years ago?” Cecil continues.

            A thought passes through my mind.

_Has it been any time at all?_

            “'Why?' she says.  'Why?  _Why_?’” Cecil says as I choke the words in unison.  The tears flood my face. 

            The man who is not short suddenly places a knife against the ambiguous individual’s throat.  Though it is difficult to see through my tears, Cecil’s words confirm the actions.  _You_ smiles.  They smile in existential glee, at least according to Cecil.  Though I feel hallow I resound with empathy for their madness. 

            I do not move a muscle. 

            I watch.

            Suddenly compelled, I turn back to the black car with the tinted windows and return to my seat, closing the door behind me.

            I wait.

            After many minutes I hear the trunk open, a heavy box being slid in, and then the sound of the trunk door slamming shut.  I continue to stare forward.

            They return me to my apartment, my car already parked in its place before the building.  I exit the vehicle but pause at the door and watch them men drive into the beginnings of dawn.

            Turning back to the door I examine the tearstained face reflected in the apartment number plaque.  I do not care to recognize faces anymore.

            I unlock the door and walk through the living area, past Aurora asleep on the couch.

            Adrienne, who had been watching her the previous evening, calls out to me but I ignore her.

            I take a cold shower.


End file.
